


Iliad Elseworlds

by Dannell Lites Archivist (offpanel_archivist)



Category: DC Elseworlds
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-01
Updated: 2001-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:40:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offpanel_archivist/pseuds/Dannell%20Lites%20Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ambitious, unfinished fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iliad Elseworlds

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Dannell Lites, who passed away in 2002, with the permission of her family. Posting date approximate.
> 
> \--
> 
> Howdy, folks:):)
> 
> Ah really need some first rate help with this one! Moi's first  
> question is : Is the language in this consarned thing too dense, too  
> archaic for the average reader?? Is the concept too bizarre? Attention all  
> y'all beta folk! Any and all advice vis a vis additions, subtractions,  
> changes ... ANYTHING is gratefully soliticted from one and all!  
> HEEEEELP!:):)
> 
> Have Ah bitten off more than Ah can chew?
> 
>  
> 
> Dannell!

"Sing, Goddess, the wrath of Brucelles, Thomikon's son ... "

Plucking his lyre softly, Midnitomer, the blind singer and healer, sang in  
his rich vibrant voice, his song filling the lavishly appointed, spacious  
tent to its fullest. But several knowing members of The Great King's  
entourage frowned and bit their lips. From his sumptious golden throne the  
Lord of Hellas shot to his sandled feet, spilling the full bodied wine of  
Thrace in his silver chalice upon the murex died purple of his kingly robes.

"Enough!" thundered Arthorinamon, Overlord of Greece. "I'll not hear sad  
songs about that traitorous bastard! I'll not!" He raked the assembled  
ranks of warriors, Kings and Princes all, with his stormy gaze. In a fury  
he tossed the wine cup in his good right hand (the only one left to him,  
alas!) to the thickly berugged floor. "How many of our brothers, great and  
loyal warriors every one, lay dead because *he* refuses to fight? How  
many!? We've been driven from the very Gates of Troy by Kalector, foremost  
son of King Jonathiam, practically to the decks of the ships that brought us  
thither! For this I sacrificed my daughter Dolphigenia? For this I forsook  
the bed of my Queen, beauteous Meratemnestra? We're losing this  
godsbedamned war because of him!"

"Only because *you* offended his honor!" bespoke hot blooded Wallymedes,  
swiftest of charioteers, fleet of foot as the horses he drove. "Selinda was  
his! A legitimate prize of war! You gave her to Brucelles yourself, by the  
gods. And then you took her back. So the mightest of your warriors nurses  
his injured pride in his tent consoled only by his companion Wingtroklos."  
He peered about, gesturing at the rest of the assembled Aechian Lords. "Not  
a man here but wouldn't have done the same!" he declared stoutly. "No one  
wants to fight without him; we've all lost our taste for battle on your  
behalf, Oh Great King. We each came hither of our own wills, I remind you.  
Bound by our oaths, yes. But further bound by the lure of glory! Glory and  
our fair share of the riches of Troy, an olive ripe for the plucking!" His  
foray was met with several vigorous nods of agreement and Arthorinamon's  
regal face stormed over, Zues' lightning flashing in his sea blue eyes.

"I had no choice!" the King cried. "You heard the seer, the soothsayer  
Fatechas. It was the only way to appease Apollo, who's priest her father is  
and stop the plague ravaging among us!"

"Liar!" sneered Wallymedes. "Why, then, does she yet reside among your  
women and not in her father's house?" he demanded. "Why?" The accusing  
finger he pointed at the Master of Hellas was blunt and callused from long  
years of grasping the reins of plunging steeds. "You wanted her for  
yourself! You bribed Fatechas for that divination. Admit it."

Gracefully, Midnitomer, singer of songs, arose with dignity from his stool,  
slung his lyre upon his bent and aged back and faced Arthorinamon with eerie  
accuracy for one who could not see. Upon his shoulder, Pallas Athena's owl,  
symbol of his priesthood, stirred uneasily and hooted softly.

"As you would have it, Noble Lord," he said, "I will withdraw and trouble  
you no more." Immediately, young Sandorion, called The Golden Boy for the  
color of his thick, curly hair, rushed to his side. Laying a hand upon the  
youth's pale shoulder, the Singer departed, allowing himself to be guided  
from the torch lit tent. In silence, they all watched him depart with  
regret. His songs would be sorely missed.

Wily Freedysseus, sprang to his feet, a ready smile upon his lips, devilment  
in his cunning eye and silver tongue. Spreading his hands in supplication,  
he bowed low. "Surely, Gentle Lord," his voice was a coaxing purr when he  
addressed the volitile Grecian Overlord, "so wise a man as you may find some  
way to placate great Brucelles anger. Is it not so?" He stroked his  
bearded chin, smiling. "Why, yes!" he exalted. "Wily Arthorinamon!  
Cunning Arthorinamon! *Wise* Arthorinamon! Imagine it! I was about to  
suggest that you should offer Brucelles another to replace his prize. In  
that fashion honor is restored upon all sides." The King of Ithaca chuckled  
and shook his rueful head. "But I see in your eyes that you have already  
thought of it!"

Arthorinamon cleared his throat. "Why - ah - yes," he pontificated, "and so  
I have! That is exactly what I meant to do!" Arthoinamon seated himself  
with care back upon his carven gold and scandelwood throne and Freedysseus's  
smile broadened.

"In reward for your loyalty and keeness of perception," the King of Mycenae  
offered magnanimously, "you may present the propositon to Brucelles in my  
name."

Canny Freedysseus bowed low once more, with a flourish of his scarlet cape.  
"At once, Oh King!" he intoned, backing from the Mycenaen Lord's presence.

J'Onnestor, eldest and wisest of the Aecheans, his balding head and long  
white beard dyed festively green, regarded the High King askance. "Wise of  
you, good Arthorinamon," he observed blandly. Arthorinamon beamed, not  
sensing the old man's sarcasm, or perhaps, choosing to ignore it.

 

 

"Why have you come, here, O King?" growled mighty Brucelles. "What be it  
that brings you thence, Jonathiam, King of Troy? Jonathiam, the greybeard.  
Jonathiam, the wise. Jonathiam, the *damned*."

"Mercy, great Brucelles," whispered Jonathiam, voice catching on the simple  
words. "'Tis a plea for mercy that brings a King to your feet, Brucelles  
SwiftSword, beloved of the gods." The tears began then, trailing down his  
wrinkled, aged face, sacrifice to snowy shouldered Hera, The Compassionate,  
Queen of Heaven.

"Kalector was the greatest of my sons," he wept. "Once my sons were as many  
as the stars under Heaven. Fifty beautiful youths who stood proudly by my  
side, guardians of my Kingdom and of my approaching twilight. But they are  
dead. All perished save for Kalector. He was mightiest of them all.  
Kalector shone like the gift of Phoebus Apollo, Lord of the Sun, casting his  
light upon all. Tall, he stood and resolute ... yet ever honorable in  
battle ... "

The old man slipped to his creaking knees, then, and buried his face in his  
hands. "And now he is dead as well." Ancient hands, gnarled and twisted by  
much hard work over the long years, rose and snatched the gray hair from his  
thinning head while he mourned and keened his grief. "Woe!" he sobbed.  
"Woe that a man should live so long to see such a thing! The death of the  
greatest of his sons!" He ripped his already tattered robes, outward sign  
of his great anguish. Brucelles stood still and quiet, giving no sign of  
his heart's pain at the piteous sight. When next Jonathiam spoke Brucelles  
listened in silence.

"What of your own aged father, Mightiest of Aechia, ancient, frail Thomikon?  
Bereft these many years of his Zues given wife, the Immortal sea nymph  
Marthetis? Grievest not for him when dark and gloomy Charon came to escort  
him 'cross Styx? Did his eyes not shine with great pride at the sight of  
thee, his son, bearer of his blood, and your many deeds of mighty skill and  
valor? Warmest they not his staunch old heart as brave Kalector did mine  
own? And your companion Wingtroklos? Did you not love him? As I loved  
Kalector. But they both lie dead, taken from us by this accursed war. The  
youth was brave of spirit and fair of face. He longed for glory that he  
might be a fit companion for you in his own eyes. And glory he found. He  
and and his love for you will n'er be forgot. Timeless as the Immortal  
gods, it is."

At the mention of Wingtroklos, his constant companion, dark and brooding  
Brucelles' at last gave vent to his sadness.

He wept.

"Tis said that you were given a choice, Young Lord of Battle," spoke  
Joanathiam into the gathering, looming darkness. "That you wert promised  
one of two destinies by the gods. Camest thou not to this great battle you  
should live a long but unremarkable life as most men do. Camest you  
thither, you were promished a short life, but everlasting fame and renown;  
to live forever enshrined in the memory of man. You have chosen your glory  
and your honor above all."

Reaching out, the aged, still tearful King of Troy clutched Brucelles around  
the knees in painful supplication. He lay his graying head on that strong  
muscular thigh, annointing the tanned flesh with his spilling grief.

"Mercy, Great One," he entreated. "Mercy for a tired old man who has lost  
everything that once gave his long life meaning. As you have lost. Mercy in  
the name of bright, laughing Wingtroklos who's smile lifted your sad heart  
and gladdened your sore spirit. Open your brave heart to this piteous  
suppliant, I pray you. I ask only for the body of Kalector, my son. So  
that I may bury him with honor in the City he served so valiantly. So that  
his wife, loyal and constant Loisamanche, may find an end to her tears and  
anguish. So that his mother, Marthuba, my Queen, may seek peace at last.  
Unburied wouldst have his shade wander the earth, knowing no peace? Let me  
lay him to rest."

For many long seconds there came no answer. But when Jonathiam felt  
Brucelles hard shed tears fall upon his head, he looked up. Brucelles  
covered his face with his hands, broad and callused from an eternity of  
training with sword and spear and shield, trying to block out the sight of  
the weeping Trojan King. And perhaps to shield his own tears from the sight  
of men.

"Go." he choked, his deep voice (made it seemed for shouting war cries upon  
a battlefield) cracked and in ruins. "Take him. Bury him. Mourn."

So saying, mighty Brucelles stumbled away, crashed to his knees, and threw  
himself upon the preserved body of Wingtroklos, awaiting his funeral games;  
weeping from the heart, his tears flowing like blood from an open wound.  
But there was no Wingtroklos to bind his wounds, now. To smile and joke  
with him, to understand him so well; to love him. He had thought that he'd  
had enough of tears and wailing, grief and woe.

Not so.

In his joy Jonathiam did not forget to be grateful to his most fearsome  
enemy. He lay one hand, feeble now and fragile as parchament, upon Bucelles  
night-dark head.

"We have come together, you and I, united by our common grief and pain. But  
grief is ever greedy and ravenous. Take care that it does not swallow thee."

 

And so ended the funeral of Kalector, beloved of Apollo, Lord of the Sun and  
Tamer of horses.

 

 

Mellissius Aforethought could never decide, later, just what it was that  
alerted her. The soft russle of the sweet smelling grass ... a scent  
wafting upon the air, perhaps, or was it some sense even more primal? She  
never knew. In the end, she knew only that she was no longer alone in this  
place of grief and sorrow. That her solitary sadness had been most vilely  
intruded upon. Her quick temper flared to the sound her sword sang, ringing  
like the chimes of a bell, as she freed it from out of the belt spanning her  
pleasingly plump waist.

"Show yourself, intruder!" she shouted. "Come out and face me, wretch!"

He stepped from the dimness, then, a tall shadow detaching itself from a  
larger one, and strode into the waning light of the setting sun. The ruby  
light of Apollo's fading glory seemed to bathe him in blood for an eternal  
moment. She recognized him instantly, then. Mellissius lips peeled back  
from her teeth in a feral snarl.

"Brucelles!" the petite redhead (small for an Amazon) spat the name like a  
curse. She tossed one of her long waist length braids the color of drying  
blood over her shoulder in disdain. "Think you to kill more of us? Never!  
Not while I draw breath!"

"Hold enow, Mellissius Afterthought," the Myrmidon Prince returned in a  
surprisingly soft voice. Brucelles spread his empty hands. "Would you slay  
an unarmed man?" He was certain she would not. More than once he had  
faced her upon the field of battle and seen her honor. Small she might be,  
but highly skilled and fierce of heart. And great in honor.

"And what is that wrapped and so carefully concealed, slung across your  
back?" the newly appointed Amazon Queen sneered hotly, pointing with her  
sword. "A shapened twig for picking your teeth, I suppose!"

Brucelles knelt and carefully unwrapped the sword from it's silken binding  
and lay it before Melissius. The sword was not new. It bore many marks of  
long, hard use; the sweat stained metal glistening upon its pommel. This  
was no sword meant for play or ostentatious display.

"Tis my honor that brings me forth Mellissius Aforethought," Brucelles  
murmured. "To this place now and to the Gates of Troy itself. To my death  
if the prophecy speaks true and I think it does." He studied the sword for  
long moments. "In truth, I care not. I have nothing left to return to."

The lonliness in that deep sonorous voice tore the flesh of Melissius' heart  
more surely than his sword might have done. But she kept her silence;  
waiting.

"My honor brought me here," he said once more. "My honor .... and a gift  
for a Queen." He touched the sword and stroked it as he might a lover's  
soft skin for an instant. "This sword is a part of my body almost. We are  
one. I have weilded it from my infancy. We understand one another  
perfectly. The only other who ever understood me is ... no longer here.  
There is a part of my soul mingled with its metal. How appropriate that you  
should bury it with Diana ... since you will indeed be burying a part of  
me."

"And what part would that be, Brucelles, Killer of Amazons?" demanded  
Melissius tartly. "The battle rage that lead you to seek her out upon the  
field of battle? That lead you to kill her?"

Brucelles looked up into Mellisius' earth-brown eyes, the gift of Gaea,  
Earth Mother. As, indeed, were the Amazons themselves. "It is the bane of  
men that they often kill the thing they love." he whispered.

Melissius eyes widened and for the first time her sword wavered slightly,  
then lowered itself. Her stomach roiled and threatened rebellion at the  
thought of Diana, her lovely Diana, in the rough clutches of a *man*.

There was unspoken pleading in Brucelles dark blue eyes. "Surely you  
understand. Did you not love her yourself: Was she not your innamorata?  
Diana and I were very much akin; like reflections in a mirror. She was  
fierce and beautiful, but noble of heart. Wild and free as I am not free.  
How could I not love her? It wasn't until I had slain her that I - that I  
knew what I had lost. Think you that I did not mourn? Oh, yes, I mourned. I  
mourned until my battle-fellows mocked me for it. 'Brucelles Heart Sore'  
they called me. 'Brucelles Sleeve Heart'. Take the sword. Bury it with  
her; bury a piece of *me* with your Queen, Mellissius Aforethought."

"Never!" hissed Melissius. "I'll kill you first!"

Faster than Zues' lightning, swifter and hotter than Zephorus, the South  
Wind, Brucelles struck then. Before she could bring her sword to bear  
Mellissius found herself pinned by the strength of those hands, those arms.  
Her sword went flying from her grip to land far away. Steely fingers pried  
open her closed hand and thrust into it a larger, heavier sword, then closed  
them firmly about the pommel as if he did not wish her lose the weapon now  
resting in her hand.

"Then strike, Mellissius Aforethought!" he cried. "And do not count the  
cost."

She raised her sword to do it. Her heart burned with the need for it. To  
strike him dead and spill his blood, sacrifice upon Diana's tomb.

And then she remembered and lowered the sword.

"Hades take you Brucelles, Swift Sword!" she growled. "And what would be the  
use of that? Tis well known that no weapon, no sword, may harm you!"

He drew her closer, crushing her against his chest. Her dark auburn head  
swam with the nearness of him; she was dizzy with the heat of anger raising  
off his body in great stifling waves, writhn and coiling like a living thing  
as he stared down into her earthen eyes, spearing her like an enemy on the  
battlefield. "There is one place you may safely strike me Mellissius  
Aforethought," he hissed, his breath hot in her ear. "A single spot upon  
this body where I am vulnerable to sword or spear or arrow. Shall I tell  
you where it is?"

She studied him. Was he serious? Yes, she could tell that he was. Unlike  
most of his fellow warriors, he was beardless like a woman and that helped  
to ease her natural distrust a bit. He'd give no enemy the chance to pull  
him off balance by tugging upon a beard. Wise of him Mellissius thought.  
His hair was clipped short in the front and upon the sides, for much the  
same reason, she suspected. But in the back, it spilled forth like a long,  
flowing ebony curtain tied back with a simple leather thong. It seemed that  
he did not worry about being taken from behind. He was either very trusting  
or very confident, she decided. The later she guessed. Few were the men or  
Amazons quick enough to take Brucelles from behind. Not for nothing was he  
know as Brucelles *Swift* Sword. And not simply for his readiness to use  
it, either. But, then, she'd just had ample evidence of his speed hadn't  
she? Furiously, she beat back the flames of resentment until they lay like  
charred, smoldering embers within her breast.

"Tis not for such as I to slay you, Brucelles, Man Reaper. The Gods  
themselves will do that."

She could have sworn that he almost smiled at her curse. Slowly, she  
watched the storm fade from his bright blue eyes, blowing past her hot and  
furious as it deserted him. Bereft, he turned his back and stepped away.  
Never before in his short life, she warrented, had he turned his back upon  
an enemy carrying a sword. She almost felt honored in an irrational way.  
Trust did not come easily to such a man as Brucelles.

"Take your sisters and go, Mellisseus Aforethought," he advised softly.  
"Tis no dishonor to leave such a slaughter as this. Must more of your  
sisters perish before the gates of a city not their own? With her life,  
Diana has purchased your freedom from the oath you swore unto Jonathiam.  
Let her grave, buried by Amazon custom upon the battlefield where she fell,  
stand as a monument to Amazon honor and fierceness. Go, I pray you."

Mellisseus lowered the heavy sword.

"And what of you, Brucelles?" She could not bring herself just now to  
address him by one of the many sobriquets by which he was known. Which,  
after all? Brucelles, Swift Sword? Brucelles, Prince of Myrmidon?  
Brucelles, The Fair? Brucelles, Dark Soul? And now ... Brucelles, Killer  
of Amazons.

His back stiffened and he held his head proudly erect. "We are as the gods  
have made us, fair Amazon," he said. "As Destiny molded and shaped us. And  
my destiny is not yet met." At his side his hands knottted themselves into  
fists. "There is still *one* thing I must do," he promised, his voice harsh  
and unyeilding. "After that ... I care not."

Mellisseus looked away, closing her eyes against the pain in that deep  
voice, and the sword in her hand clattered to the ground from her suddenly  
nerveless fingers.

'Oh Diana, my Queen,' she prayed, 'guide me now, from the Elaysian Fields,  
innamorata! Help me to see the right path. *Could* you have loved him?  
Tell me that it could never be so! He is Heracles Incarnate. Everything  
that we despise about his sex and still are driven to emulate and admire  
made rough flesh. Fury and darkness struggling for the Light. And yet ...  
'

And yet ...

But there came no answer to her plea. And when she opened her brown eyes  
once more Brucelles was gone. Melted like a shadow into the swiftly falling  
gloom of night as if he'd never been there at all.

 

 

 

 

Cast:

Midnightomer=Doctor Midnight=Homer  
Brucelles=Bruce Wayne=Achilles  
Arthorinamon=Orin (Aquaman)=Agamemnon  
Meratemnestra=Mera=Klytemnestra  
Donnalen=Donna Troy=Helen  
Diana=Wonder Woman=Pentheseleia  
Guyjax=Guy Gardner=Ajax  
Kalector=Kal-El=Hector  
Loisamanche=Lois Lane=Adromanche  
King Jonathiam=Jonathan Kent=King Priam  
Queen Marthuba=Martha Kent=Queen Hecuba  
Selinda=Selina Kyle=Briseis  
Sandorion=Sandy=boy servant to Midnitomer  
Timon=Tim Drake=boy servant to Brucelles  
Dolphinigeia=Dolphin=Iphigenia  
Thomikon=Thomas Wayne=Peleus  
Marthetis=Martha Wayne=Thetis  
Wallymedes=Wally West=Diomedes  
Wingtroklos=Nightwing=Patroclos  
Fatechas=Doctor Fate=Calchas  
Jonnestor=J'onn J'onzz=Nestor  
Freedysseus=Scott Free=Odysseus  
Arsenoparis=Arsenal=Paris  
Barbarssandra=Barbara Gordon=Cassandra  
Gartheigisthus=Garth (Tempest)=Aeigisthus  
Thaliadameia=Thalia  
Ibnoptolemus-Ibn Al Xuffraish  
Rasalomedes=Ras Al Ghul=Lycomedes, King of Scyros


End file.
